Solipsist
by Watanabe Maya
Summary: Sure, he loves him. But not in the way that Arthur loves him, and not in the way that Arthur wants to be loved by him. But this, this fact alone, is something that Alfred would never say, not to him - never to him. For his mind is too fragile, his body too weak, and Alfred knows he cares too much to allow himself to break his heart apart. / UKUS Oneshot.


This is what happens when you're up writing at like midnight until five in the morning. This is probably the strangest thing I've ever written so far, I can't...I don't even know. I'm a noob at this style but hey, I wanted to try something new and different after a while. Happy reading guys, and please do leave a review! (no flames pls i'm sorry hahaha orz)

*Update: I re-uploaded this after tweaking a few parts.

Followers for ADP (A Definite Perhaps), I'm sorry to have disappointed you with this update instead of a new chapter. Please do check this one out if you'd like, nonetheless.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Hetalia and its characters.

* * *

_This is the story of Arthur Kirkland, an Englishman twenty-three years old, with bushy eyebrows and blonde hair, who reads books, sips tea, and who inevitably falls – completely, helplessly, and irrevocably – into the sin of falling in love with his own best friend._

-x-

Alfred is nine the first time he catches sight of the boy, by a case of chance and a sombre turn of events in a day of the latter's life.

The boy, from what Alfred judges by his size, is probably two to three years his junior. All lanky limbs and mussed-up hair, blonde like the colour of wheat, many would say; his attire consisting of button-ups and sweater vests, plaid shorts barely resting until his pale, knobbly knees. His looks are average – besides his oversized eyebrows – no much less from what one would expect from a typical English schoolboy – all prim and proper and most definitely out of place in the rancid, poverty-ridden streets of Flint, Michigan.

"Hey there," Alfred calls out to the boy, his tone cheery and light, mirroring the brilliance he held in his bright blue eyes.

He's sitting on the pavement; back arched and hunched over, face turned to the wall. It was as though he had been left there – abandoned, even – his small figure seemingly beaten and battered by the cold of the wind. He pays no heed to Alfred, though, and doesn't bother to give him a reply. Alfred thinks that the boy didn't hear him, and that maybe he wasn't loud enough, so he calls out to him again –louder this time.

"Hey!"

But the boy in question says nothing, only drawing his legs towards himself and burying his head in his knees in an attempt to block Alfred out. At this, the child approaches the boy with caution, bending down on his knees to allow his whispers to be caught by the other's ears.

"Are you okay?"

Silence.

"You're the new kid, right? One of the Kirklands? What's somebody like you doin' down here all by yourself?"

"N-none of your b-bu-business," the boy hiccups, his voice perceivably strained and somewhat clipped and choked in tone.

"H-hey," Alfred rests his hand on the boy's shoulder, startled and surprised. "Are you… are you crying? What happened?"

The boy responds through the absence of his words. There is only the subtle shaking of his head, still resting on his knees, concealing his eyes, his face, his features.

At this, Alfred frowns.

"Liar, you _are._"

"Go away."

"Look, okay, I don't know why you're crying but ya see, I'm the hero 'round these blocks in here and so it's my job as your hero to cheer you up." Alfred beams and puffs his chest out in pride, tilting his chin up as he recites his spontaneously created creed to save all citizens and become the youngest protector and guardian of the universe.

"I don't need one," the boy says, interrupting him. "Leave me alone."

"Another lie!" Alfred gasps, horrified. "Everyone needs one! C'mon. Tell me what's wrong."

"My rabbit died," the boy says then, finally confessing, raising balled fists to rub at his eyes and remove the traces of his tears and his loneliness. "He died this morning. I s-saw him when I visited his cage. I was g-going t-to f-feed him b…but now…M-Mint… he's g-gone and I-I…I c-can't…" his voice trails off, making way for a fresh wave of tears that threatened to emerge.

Alfred doesn't know what to say to this, so he wraps the boy around in a tight little hug – it's what his brother, Matthew, does to him whenever they're watching a scary movie or some Halloween special on TV, and it always worked to ease his nerves and calm him down-and so he hopes that this simple gesture of his will be enough to cease the other's crying as well.

"It's going to be okay, dude," he coos and consoles, "it'll all be okay."

"I-I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Just let it all out."

The boy feels nice though, Alfred thinks, all warm and wrapped up in the niche of his arms. He hopes it can help make the boy feel better. Happier. Safe.

_It does._

"I'm Al. Short for Alfred," Alfred says, promising to let go as soon as the other's crying ceases. "And I'll be here for you instead, so you won't have to ever think about being lonely."

But deep inside, a part of him hopes that this moment could last forever.

"T-thank y-you."

Sans the crying part, though. Alfred doesn't think he can ever relish the feeling of the boy's snot and tears soaking through his favourite, white t-shirt.

-x-

Alfred is ten when he finally discovers the boy's name.

He is in the city library on one morning, off to borrow a book in his brother's stead – for the sake of poor ol' Mattie who lay in bed with the flu, but still insisted that had been in absolute, dire need of Cockrill's _The Teddy Bear Encyclopaedia _as research material for his school report – when he comes across a forgotten library card tossed carelessly aside on the floor. Being the hero that he is, Alfred, naturally, picks it up and heads to the counter in hopes of returning the card to its original owner.

His fingers brush over the card as he wipes out the dust that gathered over its surface, hoping eagerly to make out the identity of its current owner should he ever be familiar with that person.

"Oh, I believe that belongs to me."

Now, Alfred would never go to the library on his own accord. Nor would he ever consider the act of reading as a hobby – maybe for stuck-up, boring adults, yes, it could be, but for children, there was just no way that would seem like a good idea – there were sports and video games and movies that were so much more fun than musty, weathered books. As a child, he would much rather view stories on the big screen than to bring himself to consider reading them in print. Comic books, he had always reasoned, were of a much higher calibre than old literature, with action-packed panels and _cool _drawing styles pulling readers in with a greater, more intense force than that of endless arrays of letters and words printed on worn parchment in dark ink.

So it comes as a great surprise to Alfred when he finds out that the owner of this library card is a young child around his age. It is the same boy he had met – and hugged, Alfred remembers as a faint blush creeps onto his cheeks – before; still the same thin face and soft voice, but now unearthed to be an avid fan of Shakespearian poetry with a knack for reading fanciful, but complicated literary books and publications.

"Really? You sure? This seems like an awfully difficult book though. I don't think you'd be interested in-"

"But you see_,_" the boy says with an tired sigh, "my name's right here." He raises a finger and points to the name at the end of the list on the card, written in fine, run-of-the-mill-English-schoolboy cursive. "It _is _mine."

"Oh, nice name you've got there," Alfred responds. "It's all fancy and stuff. It's cool, ya' know."

"Um. Well, it's fine. I guess. Thanks, Alfred," the boy responds, drawling out the vowels of the American's name with his accent before walking away and plopping down on his seat to resume his reading.

It is a name, Alfred thinks, that is no less perfect for this boy.

It reminds him of a story his parents told him once before, a famous tale passed down through countless generations, of a little boy who had, inadvertently, earned himself a title by drawing a sword out of its embedment in stone. A little boy who wielded great power from one small act, a little boy who was then reclaimed to a throne, a little boy who was then made a ruler, monarch, and sovereign over all.

It is Arthur.

A name fit for a king.

-x-

It is when night falls and Alfred is back at home – in his room as he retells his day's experiences to his younger brother who lies, resting, on the lower bunk – that he learns, in complete and utter surprise, from Matthew, that the boy, Arthur, is in fact, two years his senior, and not the other way around.

Alfred wonders what sort of eating habits Arthur has that makes him stay so tiny.

He thinks that maybe treating him to some ice cream – _it's a dairy product with milk and calcium!_ – and some hamburgers – _there's protein in all that beef!_ – at McDonalds would do the trick.

-x-

Alfred always sees Arthur in the library in the afternoons.

Some days, he has bruises on his face. Other days, there are cuts on his arms. On those days, Arthur is reading in the farthermost corner of the library, with a sad and forlorn expression on his face. Alfred sits across him then, providing comfort through his company, though neither of them exchanges a single word.

But then there are days that he appears perfectly fine. There are no bandages on his face, his scars are healing to be almost near invisible, and the number of smiles he flashes to Alfred is incalculable. His tone is warm, and he himself is the one who offers a hand as he guides Alfred to take a seat beside him on the first table beside the library's reception counter.

Alfred likes those days the most.

-x-x-x-

Arthur is fourteen when he receives – or rather, _initiates_ – his first kiss.

He is in the library on one Saturday afternoon, as usual, caught up in intricate plots and well-woven tales, all of which spoke of a boy named Harry with a scar above his forehead and a penchant for casting spells and protection. Alfred is there with him again, drumming his fingers on the old, wooden table as he waits for the older boy to finish. He has long-since completed his homework – a timeline and report on the Presidents of the United States, from Washington until Reagan – and Arthur has promised him that they will eat lunch together so long as Alfred would agree to wait for him to finish reading his current book.

"But can't you just borrow it and bring it with you so that you could read it at home instead?" Alfred whines. "It's already three and I haven't eaten anything yet. Let's go. I'm starvin', Art."

"It's _Arthur_," the Brit corrects him sharply, "not Art. It's my name, not a school subject." He huffs out in an exasperated tone, "And I've already reached the limit on my account so I can't borrow any more books until I return the ones I've got at home. But I'm not done reading those yet."

"How many hav'ya got?"

"Twelve."

"_Arthur. _Dude. What. I can't even –"

Arthur shuts him up with a press of his lips against Alfred's own, an innocent peck and playful locking of their tongues, disarming the young American boy from releasing his planned onset of words and complaints.

"Just give me a moment, please," he says coyly, his words hot and breathless against the other's skin as he releases his grasp and lets go of the American. "I'm already in my last chapter."

"O-okay."

"And you're a liar, Alfred," he says as he pulls away, licking his lips and revelling in the sweet taste of chocolate – bitter against the flavour of his morning tea – that remained, still warm, on the tip of his tongue. "You had a Cadbury in your pocket before, didn't you?"

-x-

When they are eating in McDonalds together on the next day – Alfred dragged Arthur out from the library early in the afternoon _again_ – Alfred asks Arthur about the "difficult book" he had been caught reading before. He expects a simple one-sentence sort of response, a plain and brief description, and maybe even a recommendation of the book at most. He isn't prepared for the lengthy barrage of adjectives and purple prose that flowered Arthur's speech as he drones on to Alfred about the countless tales of valiant knights and medieval sorcery and wizardry and magical creatures – unicorns, fairies, brownies, pixies, and so many more that slipped past Alfred's mind – for hours on end.

Arthur's lecture lasts for two hours, spoken in between dainty bites of hamburger meat and spoonfuls of vanilla ice cream. Alfred doesn't understand most of what Arthur is talking about, but he lets the issue slide and allows the boy to continue prattling on about his literary fantasies. Nothing makes Arthur happier than his literature, Alfred notes.

His tone is more cheerful and upbeat; his face is more expressive; and his eyes, all lit up, are so much more vibrant. They shine with a distinct, brilliant radiance; a healthy, natural glow like that of newfound minerals and emerald gemstones. They are like jewels – precious treasures that shimmered in their splendour whenever the young Brit would take on expressions that brimmed with delight and childlike glee.

By then, Alfred thinks to himself that he quite likes the colour of Arthur's eyes and decides to take it as his job to protect those jewels and his smiles.

For Arthur's happiness will always be in Alfred's best interests.

It's his duty as a hero, after all.

-x-x-x-

If one were to ask about Arthur Kirkland, the only words to grace the lips of those who would answer in response would have to be compliments. An endless list of sugar coated, honeyed words that brimmed with admiration, respect, awe, and above all, high regard. He is smart and bright and all things amazing. Well read. Well mannered. Poised. Talented. Brilliant.

Outside these walls, he is _perfection._

That is what they know. That is what they think, what they perceive, what they believe. And that is what they see.

But the world is teeming with oblivious idiots; ignorant fools who drown themselves in the false ecstasy of fanciful dreams and egotistical whims, their narcissistic ideologies dulling their senses and keeping them from paying heed to others. That is what the boy thinks, and that is why this is all of the _perfect_ little boy that he decides he will ever let them know.

But it is when dinner ends with his family that he promptly exits from the table and steps into his room – _his heaven, his hell, his abyss, his purgatory – _where he locks his door shut and blocks out the world, ridding himself free from disdainful, prying eyes. And it is when he knows no one else is awake to let himself be heard that he sheds off his mask – the idealized visage of a perfect image he held over society that he had so carefully built over all the years of his life; casting it aside and tucking it in the shadows of his mind to be used again for the next day.

And it is late into the night when the sun has long since set and the moon has risen to stand alongside the stars, a blanket of darkness shrouding the world in the numbing, hazy mist of sleep, that his perfect mask falls off as he strips himself bare. There are no more veneers, no more veils, no more facades, no more false fronts. He becomes a different person entirely.

He becomes _himself_.

-x-

Arthur is fifteen when he comes to terms with his gender, and allows Alfred to be his witness. It is also the first time for him – and Alfred, at the young age of thirteen – to understand the concepts of skin-ship and physical union in what is no better defined by the society as sex.

"Alfred," he pleads, in the midst of the heat of a summer afternoon. "I'm lonely."

"Yes, yes," Alfred placates, resting his arms on petite, bony shoulders. "Is this better?"

"No."

"Aw. Then what's the matter, Artie?"

"_Arthur,_" he corrects and repeats himself, grabbing the other boy by the wrist and pulling him close until Alfred's chest is pressing down on him, until Arthur shifts his weight to his other side, until they both come falling down from the chair with a crash – all trembling fingers and entangled limbs, hot breaths and sweaty skin, thundering pulses and racing heartbeats – Arthur on top of Alfred, the both of them lying underneath the old mahogany table in the farthermost corner of the public city library.

"Arthur!" he calls out, finally getting it right for once. "What are y–"

"Alfred," he whispers, pressing a slim finger to rest on the other's lips. "I'm lonely."

-x-

And the little boy will lock himself up in the room where he knows nobody will notice. Where nobody will hear the sound of his muffled, sordid cries. Where nobody will see him and his writhing figure; his pained, wet eyes; his stained, flushed cheeks. Where nobody will see the sadness and pain all gushing out of him; so that nobody will see just how rotten he truly is.

Because that is the truth – he is a rotten, selfish, spoiled, disgusting human being. Filth. Failure. The scum of the earth. More repulsive than he is good– or dare others say it, _'honourable.' _He is more an idiot than a genius – because the high marks he scores on his academic tests were not proof of his intelligence, but rather, proof that he had been a fool to have knowingly allowed himself to repeatedly fall pray to his school's corrupted system; too stupid to have been able to distinguish between the truth and the _truth._

He tries, though. It just never works out.

-x-x-x-

The first time he visits Arthur's room is when he is invited for dinner at the Kirkland residence. Back there, he is known as the best friend; so while Arthur is off taking a shower, Alfred is ushered into the bedroom by his mother to allow him to wait for his friend in peace.

The room is blue and smells of paint – the mother apologizes for this, saying that she had no idea what had overcome her son when he insisted on redecorating his room to suit his new favourite colour – and Alfred realizes that it's the same bright blue as his eyes. He blushes at this statement, albeit faintly, and comments that it is all right with him. She shuts the door and leaves him alone, and Alfred takes this as an opportunity to forage his best friend's room for any merchandise of puberty-borne hobbies– surely a boy like him would have _magazines_ to read in his free time, right? – and allows himself to rummage through the spare nooks and crannies in an attempt to satisfy his piqued curiosity.

He looks underneath the bed in hopes of finding a stash of magazines or some other sort of _refreshing _or _stimulating _materials there.

What he finds instead consists of the following: a worn out journal – more difficult words, Alfred thinks_ – _with what is unmistakeably Arthur's handwriting scrawled all over it, a chain with a rabbit's foot – well, Arthur was always one who was all gung-ho for superstitions and charms that gave good luck – and a small cutter's blade.

Alfred tucks his discovered treasures back underneath the bed just in time for Arthur – clad in a short-sleeved button-up and trousers, a towel resting on his shoulders – to enter his room and usher his friend downstairs for his mother's fresh serving of fish and chips and hamburger steak.

He leaves early; not bothering to continue with his plan to study for his midterms with Arthur's tutoring, and instead, thanks the family for the meal.

-x-

"Hey, are you okay coping with Mint now?"

"Penn once said," the boy quotes, "'That they love beyond the world cannot be separated by it.' All is well now, Alfred. There is no need to worry."

"If you say so. "

"After all," he says with a smile, "'death cannot kill what never dies.'"

Alfred doesn't say anything to this – he finds it weird, but Arthur has always been a weird one with a habit of reading difficult books – so he does nothing more than to squeeze his best friend's hand and give him a weary smile.

-x-x-x-

He plasters his smiles and fakes his contentment, and just like the rest of them, he'll sugar coat his words and glaze them with honey, luring the people in until they fall for his trap. He knows what makes them work, he knows what makes them tick. And so he'll work his way around to manipulate them – to continue with these lies, these games, and these false plays of his sick, twisted fantasies.

The people are his pawns, and his 'friends' are his puppets. He will say all the things that they want to hear, say all the things that need to be said, and expect that they will do –for him – the exact same. For them to think of his greatness, for them to shower him in words of awe and appraisal, for them to be bound to his will.

And for them to swear their loyalty and forever be by his side.

-x-x-x-

They are in a relationship by the time Alfred enters high school. Arthur is sixteen, and Alfred is fourteen. They spend their days with lazy afternoons in the air-conditioned school library, lunches at McDonald's – always by Alfred's demands and constant requests – and shagging each other in between period breaks, public washrooms, and most importantly – locked doors.

Arthur quite enjoys their little game of stolen kisses and mid-afternoon rendezvous. The sex makes him feel sated, and helps him get rid of all the excess hunger and lust he has pent up within him.

Alfred, on the other hand, doesn't yet grasp the meaning of what it is to love and be loved by another person of the same gender. A part of him just wants for Arthur to be happy; another part of him, the one that sides with the greater, more numerous opinions of the society, is repulsed by the idea of having to be done by another man on a regular basis.

-x-

_Why?_

_Why won't somebody notice?_

_Why won't somebody care?_

_Why won't somebody love me?_

These are the things that rush through his head, day by day, night by night.

But he never lets them out.

Never says anything otherwise.

And it's wrong.

It's wrong it's wrong it's wrong _it's wrong._

But that doesn't stop him.

Nothing stops him.

And the blade cuts through his skin as blood drips on the ground, the richness of reds and crimsons mixing as one.

-x-

_"Hey…you know that I love you, right?"_

It's not that he likes it or he hates it; he just doesn't understand.

_"Yup. Sure do."_

He wants to be the hero, the protector of the nation, and the saviour of all mankind. He's only playing his role, doing his best to be all selflessness and nobleness for the sake of a greater good. He doesn't necessarily enjoy what they're doing, but if it makes Arthur happy, then who is he to decide otherwise?

_"And you love me too…you do, don't you?"_

He does, but not in that way. Not in the way that Arthur loves him, not in the way that Arthur wants to be loved by him. But this, this fact alone is something that Alfred would never say. Not to him; never to him. Alfred is the hero, the knight in their story, and he has made an oath, a promise, a pledge – laying down his life and allegiance to his own little king.

For his mind is too fragile, his body too weak, and Alfred knows he cares too much to allow himself to break his heart apart.

_"Of course, Art. Of course I do."_

-x-

And so the cycle continues.

_And the nightmare never ends._

* * *

Broken!Arthur was difficult but pretty fun to write. I tried to get inspiration from my own messed up life - I don't cut though! - and I was trying to catch and give off the same impression of a rambling mind when people spiral into depression or some other equally bad experience of some sort. I sure do hope I was able to achieve that vibe through this fic.

PS - Mint the rabbit is real. He exists. He was my pet bunny up until December of last year. (I feel for you Arthur huhu)

Leave a review, please and thank you. :)


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